Granddaddy Townsend made a prune face and said, “Never mind all that. Any rider on the dodge can circle a town to come in from any direction. But that Julesburg Kid who murdered our Jason rode into Loma Blanca earlier astride a white barb and leading a palomino, in a green shirt, not no pink one. You say this jasper you other boys saw eating breakfast at the hotel knew somebody there?”
One of them nodded and said, “The waitress called him Henry. They acted sweet on one another, like he’d come courting.”
The old man rose from his seat, patting the worn grips of his Walker Conversion as he decided, “We’re wasting time. No killer on the owlhoot trail slows down to court waitress gals this close to the scene of his crime! Having no known business in these parts, that Julesburg Kid is doubtless on his way to that stagecoach line to Fort Wingate and points West, unless he’s streaking for Old Mexico in hopes of escaping us entire. So vamanos, muchachos. I want the head of that murderous drifter, and he sure as hell don’t seem to be here in Camino Viejo!”
As the bunch of them strode out of the saloon, boot heels thudding and spurs jingling, the barkeep who’d been listening silently turned to signal what looked like a regular customer sipping suds down the bar.
That wasn’t exactly what the man was there for. The barkeep asked if he’d been following all that war talk. The hired gun nodded casually and said, “I’m paid to notice trouble. Didn’t sound like trouble for anyone we know, though.”
The barkeep said, “Boss lady says she likes to hear everybody’s troubles hereabouts. You’d best go tell her what just blew into town.”
The hired gun protested, “Shit, that federal deputy they want us to watch out for wears a dark brown outfit, not no pink shirt.”
The barkeep said, “Tell her anyways. They say Longarm’s been known to act sort of sneaky.”
CHAPTER 11
Longarm arose around five that afternoon feeling way better. He flung open the jalousies so he could see what he was doing as he gave himself a whore-bath and shaved at the corner washstand. He had to put on the same rosy shirt, but it smelled all right. Then he went down to see what they might be serving for supper, having slept clean by his usual noon dinner.
He found there was nobody else having supper at that hour, if anyone living in town ate supper out to begin with. When he commented on this to the same waitress, the dishwater blonde said they had to stay open lest travelers stopping at the hotel go hungry. But there didn’t seem to be all that many since all that talk about Apache trouble had started up again.
Longarm was tempted to assure her the Jicarilla seemed resigned to their unfair fate. But he never did. What Billy Vail had sent him to look into was no beeswax of anyone else. So he allowed that roast beef with mashed potatoes and string beans sounded fine, if they’d leave out the string beans and serve him some of the tamales mentioned on the blackboard instead. When she said they could, but it would cost him extra, he said to deal him that hand anyway.
So they did, and he was right about hot tamales tasting far more interesting than string beans. A couple of townsmen in frock coats came in, but only had coffee, and left as Longarm was ordering dessert. He noticed that as Trisha was clearing away his dinner dishes, she was singing soft and low that old Scotch song about rye whiskey. He’d have never followed her words if he hadn’t already known them. But seeing he did, he had to grin as their possible double meaning sank in. She’d said that she didn’t have anybody here in Camino Viejo, but she still seemed to be singing:
“Among the train, there is a swain I dearly love myself. But what’s his name and where’s his hame, I dinna choose to tell!”
It was a shame he had all that riding ahead of him around the time she’d be getting off, but that was the way things went some nights. So he had apple pie with cheddar cheese, put away another strong cup of coffee, and told her he might or might not see her again at breakfast time.
She really seemed to care as she asked whether he’d be staying on at the hotel or not. So he said, “We live in an uncertain world, Miss Trisha. I got some calls to make this evening. Ain’t sure how many or how long.”
She asked, “Are you some sort of cattle buyer or traveling salesman, Henry? They were wondering about that this afternoon.”
He said, “You might say I’m interested in horse-trading. Who did you say wanted to know?”
She shrugged. “Queen Kirby, I imagine. It was some of her help, not Queen Kirby herself, of course. You saw two more of them just now. Having coffee at that table near the door?”
Longarm nodded and said, “Figured they were looking me over. I take it this Queen Kirby is the biggest frog in this little puddle, no offense?”
Trisha made a wry face and replied, “None taken. I don’t think much of Camino Viejo, either, but a girl needs a job. Queen Kirby’s all right, I reckon. She owns most everything and everybody in town, but she’s never done me dirty and I was brung up to live and let live.”
Longarm said, “I thought you sounded like a decent country gal. I take it this Queen Kirby don’t own this dining room, though?”
Trisha said, “Nor the hotel, the two churches, or mayhaps a few of the shops down the street. Once you own the saloon, the card house, the, ah, houses of ill repute, and the municipal corral, you’ve got a pretty firm hold on things, though.”
He nodded. “I follow your drift. There seems to be some such big frog in every puddle this size. Not too many of ‘em seem to be gals called queens, though. Is that her first name or an honorary title, Miss Trisha?”
The blonde said she didn’t know, explaining, “I’ve only seen her out front in passing. She never eats here. I understand she has a Chinese cook and dines on frog legs, fish eggs, and peasant-birds at her fancy mansion just outside of town.”
Longarm smiled gently and said, “I think pheasant was the bird you had in mind. But you were right about such vittles sounding a mite fancy. I’ve known rich folks who ate natural as the rest of us. So it’s likely this Queen Kirby ain’t been rich as long. I reckon I could use another coffee, ma’am. Seeing others seem so interested in me, it might be interesting to hang around a spell.”
She said that he could have all the coffee he wanted, but that she’d thought he had to go somewhere.
He didn’t want to tell anyone he planned to explore some canyons officially said to be deserted. So he just said he’d ride out soon enough, and lit a cheroot as she went to fetch the pot.
Nobody else came in as it started to get darker out front. By then he’d gotten about all Trisha knew out of her, and she’d started to ask more about him, or about the Henry she now thought she remembered from an earlier trail drive. So he quit while he was ahead and ambled off to see what that saloon might be like.
As Trisha had told him, they did their serious gambling in the card house between the saloon and a ramshackle row of whorehouses around a corner and up a cinder-paved lane. The saloon was the usual twenty-by-forty-foot establishment meant for drinking, conversation, and penny-ante poker. The bar ran back most of the length of the smoke-filled space. There was no piano, and a sign warned everyone to stay out of the back rooms unless they worked there.
Nobody was seated at any of the four tables. At that hour there were only a half dozen cowhands and a jasper in a rusty black suit at the bar. Longarm figured that one for the most nosy. So he bellied up handy to the cuss, but ignored him as he ordered a draft for himself.
The barkeep was usually the one who casually asked a stranger if he was new in town. But this one just poured and didn’t seem interested in the change Longarm left on the zinc-topped bar. So Longarm nursed his beer scuttle a third of the way down and lit his second cheroot before he casually said, “Heard some talk about Apache trouble as I was having supper just now.”